


The First Time(s)

by sayyesregent



Category: Into the Badlands (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Pseudo-Incest, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayyesregent/pseuds/sayyesregent
Summary: A collection of first times between the Widow and Tilda.





	The First Time(s)

The first time Tilda kills for the Widow is something the Widow remembers as if it happened yesterday.

***

_Pride. Fear. Love. Heart-sickness. Respect. Resignation._

All of these things roiled around the Widow’s body even as she acknowledged that she was the one that trained Tilda.  She’s the one that made it so that the throwing stars in Tilda’s hands would take a man’s life.

When Tilda killed her first enemy - a slaver with his sword at a Doll’s throat - the Widow found her later that night crying, heaving sobs that tugged at the Widow’s heart as she stood outside Tilda’s doorway.  With the briefest hesitation, the giving of privacy warring with the need to comfort, the Widow pushed the door open to Tilda’s chambers and strode over to her.  Wrapping Tilda in her arms, she kept her lips pressed to her daughter’s head as Tilda spoke.

“I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“You took a man’s life today, Tilda.  Your first in battle.  It can be overwhelming.”

“But he was a slaver.  He deserved to die.  They all did.”

Nodding, the Widow ran her hands soothingly along Tilda’s back.  “They did.  And many more will likely fall to your stars and your blades.  But what you are feeling now is okay.  It’s good that you feel this way.”

Tilda’s body tensed at that and her tone was disbelieving.  “Why?”

Shifting Tilda in her arms, the Widow brushed her hair back from her face, gently wiping the last of Tilda’s tears from her cheeks.  “Because it means that you respect life.  And in doing so, you will fight to defend it.  You will fight to defend your sisters and those in our care.”

Tilda reached up to lightly touch a smudge of a bruise along the Widow’s jaw, her thumb bumping over a small cut and making the Widow’s breath hitch.  Wiping at the tears on her cheeks, Tilda sat up and grabbed onto one of the Widow’s hands.

“And I will fight to defend you, Mother.  Always.”

The look that passed between them stretched on for a long moment. It wasn’t the first time the Widow felt something else sitting there between her and Tilda, but as always, she’d pushed it down.  Unable to look away from the intensity in Tilda’s blue eyes, the Widow squeezed Tilda’s hand and answered Tilda’s pledge with one of her own.

“And I you.”

***

Years later, what the Widow feels when Tilda looks at her, the corner of her lip curved in a smirk as another throwing star finds its mark, is lust.  Lust that bloomed in fits and starts over the years, the wrongness of it getting harder and harder to cling to with each passing day.  Each day where the passion in Tilda’s eyes started to match the lust in the Widow’s.

Lust that continues to grow with each training session.  Lust that winds its way through her voice as she nods to the objects in Tilda’s hands, forcing the Widow to take a deep, slow breath.

“Show me they are ready.”

She expects Tilda to send this new batch of throwing stars into the hay targets across the field set up for that purpose.  Instead, Tilda surprises her by walking up to her, a throwing star held between them like an offering.  With a smile, Tilda wordlessly takes it and runs the edge of it across the Widow’s neck.

That same lust makes the Widow reckless and she presses forward infinitesimally, letting the star barely nick her tender skin so that she’d have a mark to trace later.  If Tilda understands what the Widow is doing, she is smart enough not to mention it.

Just as she is smart enough to know that she’ll never tell the Widow that she now keeps that throwing star with the Widow’s blood on it in a drawer next to her bed.  It is a reminder of what she fights for and what is at risk every time she takes a life at the Widow’s side.

At night, when Tilda traces that throwing star across her own naked body, it is also her benediction.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time the Widow kills for Tilda is life-changing. 

Life changing and savage, driven by fear and anger that anyone would touch Tilda like that.  There were rumors but she didn’t know for sure.  The Baron’s Cogs were loyal and Tilda was afraid and after months, it took a disgusted Cog to finally come and find the Widow.  Her husband’s cruelty had sickened even his most hardened Cogs and the truth of everything came spilling out the night after the most brutal attack.  She’d heard rumors of what her husband did with some of the house Cogs and she allowed him his dalliances since they kept him out of her bed.  But she hadn’t known of his cruelty.  Whispers of it, sure, but she never pushed hard enough to confirm.  Finding out how vile her husband could be is something the Widow would have to carry forever.

So, the Widow made sure that the night her husband brutalized Tilda was the last night he lifted his hands to anyone.  _Ever_.

The Widow considered drugging her husband and tying him up - letting him slowly awaken to realize the situation that he was in, but decided against it.  She wanted him to see her coming.  She wanted that fight before she put him down.  It took only moments.  His physical prowess was more related to the Cogs he could control rather than his own skills, and when he fell to one knee, the Widow’s heart raced in triumph.  As the images of what the Cog confided to her raced through her mind, the Widow let her emotions guide her actions.

She cut off his hands first, enjoying his muffled screams as the blue cloth stuffed in his mouth acted as a willing accomplice.

The bleeding between his legs went unchecked as she crooned to him not to scream when she removed the cloth, lest she make this all last longer.  She didn’t expect him to listen and was happy she’d taken the extra step to station Cogs loyal to her outside the store room she’d commandeered for this.  As she pulled the cloth from his mouth, her body filled with rage as he trembled and screamed and begged beneath her.  She imagined Tilda’s voice crying out and begging and the Widow found herself striking her husband over and over again.  Enjoying the crunch of bone when his nose broke and as his voice was reduced to whimpers.

There was a flash of sympathy then, in that moment when she saw that he knew he was going to die, and she stopped hitting him.  Her arms ached and her breath was rushing through her mouth as she sat back on her heels, trying to tune out the wet gurgle that passed as air making its way through the Baron’s broken nose and mouth.

However, that moment of sympathy passed when his split lips stretched into a smirk and he gathered enough energy to spit blood in her direction.  One eye was still open and the malice in it was tangible.

“She was mine first, Minerva.  She’ll never be anyone else’s but mine no matter what you do to me.”

The Widow wasn’t sure if her husband even felt her knife as it slit his throat but as the light in his eye started to fade, she leaned in real close.  Lips pressed to his ear, she made sure that he took her last words with him to Hell.

“You’re wrong.  She’ll be mine and she’ll know love and respect and strength.  You will become only a memory that drives her.  And eventually, even then, you’ll be nothing.”

It took a few hours to clean up and have the Cogs dispose of her husband’s body.  Not before making sure the word got out that the Baron was dead and she was taking over.  Those loyal to her husband had a choice to make, and quick, and she was pleased to see that with a few exceptions, they all pledged to serve her.

But there was still one person she’d yet to see.  Now that she’d done what needed to be done, the Widow was left trying to push all thoughts and feelings aside so she could be calm when she saw Tilda.  Tilda denied her that chance when she’d come to see the Widow at her new chambers.

The Widow didn’t know what to expect exactly as Tilda just stood there looking at her but instinct had her opening her arms.  There was no hesitation as Tilda walked right into them and the Widow simply held her tighter as Tilda’s tears started to fall.

She’s not sure how long she held Tilda, whispering mindless words of comfort and reassurance, the strength in her tone letting Tilda know that she’d never feel fear or pain like that again.  She made the decision to teach Tilda, to train her to defend herself so that she’d never feel helpless again.  The Widow told Tilda as much as she walked her back to her quarters, laying out her training plan before saying goodnight.  The whispered ‘thank you’ that Tilda spoke to the Widow’s retreating back was received warmly and served to wash away the final bit of darkness the Widow needed to tap into for the actions she took against her husband.

The Widow had expected a thank you from Tilda.

What she never expected to hear were the three words Tilda hesitatingly confessed to her before they parted ways after one of their training sessions.

 _I love you_.

The Widow didn’t say it back, not then.  There wasn’t a need.  She’d taken a man’s life to spare Tilda and she was training her to be her strongest Butterfly, and that was enough.  For now, with her growing feelings for Tilda, it would have to be enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Tilda gets really sick, it’s her own fault. 

Staying out too long in the rain on patrol.  To prove herself to her Baron, always trying to prove herself to the woman she loved above all others.  Her first year as a Butterfly brought so much into Tilda’s life that her gratitude to the Widow felt overwhelming at times.  She honored that relationship by referring to the Widow as Mother and it was something that somehow made her feel even closer to the Widow.  Despite the trust and respect and love the Widow showed her as Tilda continued to grow as a Butterfly and trusted confidante, Tilda still felt this need to always be better, faster, stronger for the woman that gave her life that day she took the Baron’s. 

So, she pushed herself to stay out longer on patrol, convincing herself that just another hour or two in the cold rain wouldn’t make a difference.  Two days later found Tilda in bed, a fever sweat coating her body as deep coughs rattled her chest so hard she swore her ribs were going to break.

She was so weak that she couldn’t even muster up the shame when the Widow came into her room later that morning, clicking her tongue in reproach as she shut the door.  Tilda expected to receive a lecture, even resigned herself to getting one because she knew her actions two days earlier were foolish.

Instead, the Widow never left her side.

She wouldn’t let anyone else tend to Tilda and spent that first day and night with her.  Pushing Tilda’s sweaty hair back from her face, running a cool cloth across her neck, and rubbing her back as Tilda slept fitfully next to her.  A steady stream of Butterflies made their way into the room with hot tea and anything else the Widow requested and if they were curious as to why the Widow paid particular attention to Tilda, they were wise enough not to let it show on their faces.

At night, the whimpering noises Tilda made broke the Widow’s heart and she gathered Tilda close, sighing out as Tilda’s warm body burrowed closer to the Widow.  She could tell that Tilda’s chest and head hurt and she did everything she could think of to soothe her.  Holding Tilda’s head up, the Widow made her drink a special tea and listened for long minutes until she could hear the rattling in Tilda’s chest finally subside.

The fever was the worst of it, catapulting Tilda into nightmares and making the Widow wish her husband was still alive just so she could kill him again.  During those times, with Tilda clinging to her and the Widow’s tears mixing with Tilda’s sweat, the Widow swore the fierceness of the love she felt for the girl in her arms would break her.  She wanted to be the one to take care of Tilda and make her feel better.  However, when the fever raged for a second night, the Widow swore that she would send for a healer in the morning, her pride be damned.

To the Widow’s great relief, Tilda had opened her eyes early that morning and they were clear for the first time in days.  Her voice was hoarse as she thanked the Widow for staying with her, one of the Widow’s hands clasped tightly between hers.  Even the effort to speak sapped her strength and within moments, Tilda was slipping off into sleep again, her skin cool against the Widow’s lips as she pressed them to Tilda’s temple.  With a long sigh, the Widow finally let herself relax and as the stress of her vigil caught up with her, she’d fallen asleep next to Tilda with their hands still together.

Two days after that, when the Widow’s body was wracked by feverish chills, Tilda was right there by her side.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time newly-appointed Regent Tilda is late to a training session with the Widow is also the first time Tilda lied to her Baron.

Tilda was practically running when she showed up in the Conservatory, her leather gloves firmly over her hands even though her training session did not require them.

When asked by the Widow about the gloves, the question delivered with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile, Tilda shrugged and choked out a lie.  Telling the Widow that she is still trying to get used to the leather gloves despite the fact that she knows the Widow had them custom made just for Tilda.

The Widow accepted Tilda’s reason and despite the blush she can feel on her cheeks, Tilda is grateful the Widow overlooks her lie.  The truth, of course, would be much harder to confess.

That Tilda had lost track of time yet again. Her morning spent learning cartography with the Widow, sitting side by side with her, their hands brushing every so often, had led Tilda to day dream once she was dismissed from the lesson.  She’d eaten lunch with the other Butterflies and even managed to converse now and then before excusing herself to rest in her room before her afternoon lesson with the Widow.

A physical lesson was scheduled between them - an advanced one on disarming small weapons from an attacker when space was limited.  The more Tilda thought about her morning with the Widow and the more she thought about being in close physical contact with the Widow, it was like her body had taken over.  Tilda was helpless to the thoughts that made her flush warm with desire and shame, the two seeming to be her constant companion lately.

Pushing off her bed when resting no longer became an option, Tilda had groaned at the wetness she could feel just from her thoughts of the Widow alone.  She’d taken a few deep breaths, pulling on long ingrained meditation techniques and had almost succeeded in feeling less tense.  Making sure her Regent outfit was perfectly on her body, her mistake had been to adjust the leggings right before she was to exit her room, the seam pressing in such a way that found Tilda unable to open her door.

Instead, she’d braced one hand against the wall of her room and had the other pushing past her waistband to slip through the wetness between her legs.  Her voice was low and rough as she talked to herself, words rasping past her throat to fall heavily at her feet as she rubbed quick circles against her clit.

 _Please_ … _just like that_ … _Mother_ …

Her body succumbed to her thoughts and two fingers with just enough time that she might be able to explain away being late for the lesson.  Even so, Tilda barely had enough time to sprint to the Conservatory, belatedly pulling her gloves on to hide the evidence of her indulgence.

Later during the lesson, when the Widow holds Tilda’s gloved hand to demonstrate a certain technique for gripping a curved dagger, Tilda swears she can feel the touch between her legs.  She manages to catch most of the moan that rumbles from her chest but it’s still enough to have the Widow glancing down with a question in her eyes.

Scrambling for an excuse, Tilda explained that her hands were a little sore from holding the pens for the maps earlier and the repeated motions in the combat lesson were making her hands cramp slightly.  She’d shaken out her hands and assured the Widow that she would be fine, fully intent on completing the lesson.

It took all of Tilda’s willpower to not melt into the floor when the Widow guided her to sit, pulling one of Tilda’s hands into the lap and then the other, treating them to a massage as she gently chided Tilda for letting herself be pushed too hard.

That night when Tilda finally crawls under the covers, she keeps the glove on her hand and imagines it is the Widow inside of her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Tilda gets hurt in training, the Widow almost breaks protocol.

She wants to go to her, but she knows that she shouldn’t.  The half step she took when Tilda went down hard on the training ground is reclaimed as the Widow eases back.  She can’t show favoritism, not really, so she just continues to oversee the training session.  As the same Butterfly brings Tilda down once more, the Widow’s hands curl into fists at her side, the need to strike back at the Butterfly that hurt Tilda surprising in its strength.  Even knowing that this is all a necessary part of training doesn’t stop the Widow from making a list of first aid supplies that she’ll need to gather once she returns to her chamber.  Bringing her attention back to the session, the Widow feels a swell of pride as Tilda gets her feet under her, waving the other Butterfly forward to try again.  The smiles exchanged between Tilda and the Butterfly loosen the Widow’s fists and she smiles as Tilda manages to best her partner on the third try.

Taking note of how Tilda favors her left side, even as she perfectly executes the next maneuver, has the Widow making her next decision, skirting protocol easier than she’d like to admit.

“Tilda.”

When those blue eyes find hers, the Widow has to take a moment before continuing to speak, her fingers wanting to curl into her palms for a wholly different reason.

“Once you’ve completed your training, come find me.”

Leaving it as a simple command means that there’s no room for questions and she acknowledges Tilda’s agreement with a small nod of her head before moving farther down the training grounds to check on another set of Butterflies.

She’s reading by a fireplace in a small side room when Tilda finds her a little over an hour later.  Tilda’s training gear had been exchanged for more loose-fitting attire and still, she holds the shirt away from her side.  The Widow’s first glance lets her know that Tilda’s injuries are either worse than she let on or that Tilda overextended herself after initially being hurt.

Putting the book down on the side table, the Widow picks up a small medical bag and gestures for Tilda to sit on a stool the Widow brought into the room for just this reason.  She feels sympathy as Tilda gingerly sits down and she gives in to what she’s wanted to do since Tilda was thrown to the ground and runs her hand over Tilda’s hair.

“You did well today, you know.”

The scoffing sound Tilda makes has her wincing and she meets the Widow’s gaze before looking down at her feet.  “I was thrown to the ground as easily as a child.  Twice.”

“And?  You went back, even hurt, a third time and were triumphant.  You’ll get knocked down and hurt in training.  It’ll be good for you and you’ll be stronger and quicker for it.  If you had given up after being thrown, then we would be having a very different conversation.  Just try relax now and let me take care of you.”

As the Widow gently removes Tilda’s shirt, the Widow curiously watches a blush bloom across Tilda’s cheeks and ignoring her treacherous heart, she tells herself that it’s the warmth from the fireplace causing it.  With Tilda stripped bare to the waist, the Widow finally has a good look at the bruises and scrapes marring the pale skin of Tilda’s ribs.  A few of the scrapes are still beading with blood and the Widow treats those first, her hand steady on Tilda’s back as she braces against the pain.

Using her personal salve, she tends to Tilda’s wounds.  Lovingly, hesitatingly so as to cause the least pain, reverently, even as long simmering lust turns her insides to liquid fire, the Widow tries to ease Tilda’s pain.  Taking her time, she finishes with the salve and spends a few moments wrapping a clean white bandage around Tilda’s ribs.  The Widow presses a quick kiss to the top of Tilda’s head once she finishes, handing Tilda her shirt and helping her put it back on.  Replacing the items back into the medical bag, the Widow places it back on the table and takes a seat by the fireplace once more.

“Leave the wrapping on at least until tomorrow morning.  I’ll have some salve sent to your chambers tonight.  You’ll need to treat those wounds at least twice a day but you should be fine in the next couple of days.”

Tilda eases herself off the stool and takes an experimental deep breath, the corner of her mouth lifting in a small smile as she looks over at the Widow.

“Thank you, Mother.”

The way Tilda is looking at her has the Widow’s heart racing a little once more and she calls out to Tilda before she can move to leave the room.  “Stay.  Rest a while, Tilda.  You need to give the salve some time to work and here is as good a spot as any.”

As Tilda looks around the room, the Widow can tell that Tilda doesn’t quite know how to arrange herself to prevent her injuries from hurting.  Before Tilda can resume her seat on the stool, the Widow shifts until she is sitting deeper into the loveseat by the fireplace.  Patting her lap once, she waves Tilda over.

“Here, stretch out and this way you can rest on your good side.”

It takes a few moments for Tilda to get situated but the sigh she lets out as her body relaxes into the loveseat prompts the Widow to bring one hand to run soothingly through Tilda’s hair.  Picking up her book, the Widow startles a little when Tilda’s soft voice sounds out a few minutes later.

“Will you read to me?”

Her heart shouldn’t race the way it does, love pushing the blood to run faster even as her brain registers the way Tilda’s hand comes to rest on top of the Widow’s thigh.  Clearing her throat, the Widow begins the story again, continuing contentedly even as she feels Tilda slip off to sleep against her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time the Widow thinks about dancing with Tilda, she’s sitting in her bed chamber and the sudden image she has of it forces her to chase the shame with alcohol.

Nobody knows that she has gramophone in her room.  During one of her earlier raids, she’d come cross the old record player and what she came to find out were albums.  Grooved discs that played music when placed under the arm of the player and she’d fallen in love.

She has a few favorite songs from the small collection of albums she’s acquired, all favorites for different reasons.  But there is one song that she always listens to when her heart aches for her Regent.

It’s old.  Older than anything else she’s come across and the Widow treasures it above all others.  Looking at the record, she fondly reads the title before letting the record player arm come down.  As the soft crackle of sound begins, it’s both comforting and haunting and she pours herself another drink.

She knows that “The Love I Have For You” by Alberta Hunter isn’t a song that anyone who knows her would associate with her.  Not with the image she projects, the image she has to project as Baron.  If she’s honest with herself, it’s not one she really associates with herself either.

Except on nights like this.  Nights when thoughts of Tilda seem to fill every space inside of her and she is helpless to do anything else but play this record.

Settling into the chair near her bed, the Widow swirls amber alcohol in her glass before taking a long sip.  Closing her eyes, she keeps the glass in one hand and brings the other to stroke softly across the skin exposed by the open vee of her robe. Her fingertips pass across the skin over her heart and she lets the alcohol do its job, dulling all the negative voices in her head until all she can see is Tilda and all she can hear is the song.

Listening to the music, she lets herself imagine what it would be like to finally hold Tilda in her arms.  To hold her and kiss her cheek, drawing her close and waiting for Tilda’s hands to slide across her back and hold the Widow tight.  Her heart aches at the image and she opens her eyes, finishing the alcohol in her glass in one gulp before placing it on the floor at her feet.  The moonlight streaming across her bedroom floor catches her eye and she tilts her head back to rest against the back of the chair, everything going blurry as more of the alcohol warms her mind.

The Widow brings both hands to rest over her heart and closes her eyes again, letting the steady pounding of her heart guide her thoughts as she pictures dancing slowly with Tilda as they pass through the soft light of the moon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Tilda earns a scar in a training session, she couldn’t know that she would come to cherish it.

It seems that lately, she can sense whenever the Widow is near.  The awareness she has seems like just a part of who she is now and she can’t deny that it gives her a little thrill every time she catches the Widow looking at her.  This afternoon seems to be no different as she can sense the Widow watching her from across the training grounds. 

A dip in the ground made the angle of her parry awkward and she felt the quick burst of pain before she could step back.  Her opponent caught Tilda with the corner of a dulled training blade and it caught on the buckle of her shirt, dragging it hard against her skin.  Not enough to stop the session from continuing but enough that she felt the pull of the cut for the rest of the day.

It had become a habit that neither she nor the Widow spoke about but after Tilda was done, she found herself standing in front of the Widow.  The Widow’s hands soft and sure as they treated the cut, both of them pretending not to notice how fast the other was breathing.  Pretending not to notice the way the Widow’s hands linger or the way Tilda holds onto the Widow’s shoulder for support whether she needs to or not.  They both agree that the cut should heal just fine and they’d parted ways with small smiles, Tilda aware of the way the Widow looked at her until she cleared the door frame of the room.

It wasn’t until just over a week later that she even realizes that she has a scar there now.  It’s a small one, really.  Tilda knows if you weren’t looking for the small ridge of skin, you’d probably never see it.

But she can feel it when she bathes and when she’s getting dressed.  Right above her hipbone, slightly curving down toward the crease in her thigh.  Most of the time it is nothing but a passing thought.  It’s part of her body now, a warrior’s body that she is has pride in and one she trains as a weapon.

There are times though when that scar becomes something else.  When her mind conjures the image of the way the Widow watched her that particular training session, the Widow’s hands resting casually on the daggers strapped to her thigh.  Those times when her fingertips would find the scar as she’s touching herself, wet strokes between her legs matching the tracks she traces across the scar.

As she does, she remembers the way the Widow’s fingers spread her personal salve across Tilda’s body, treating the cuts and scrapes of training and battle.  Remembering the way the Widow’s lips pursed in a pout as she treated this particular cut, her fingers dipping low on Tilda’s hip and causing both of them to look at each other for one heated moment.

When she touches herself on this night, Tilda finally comes to the thought of the Widow there with her in her bed.  The Widow’s red hair loose and her hands spread tight over Tilda’s ribs, leaning down and pressing her pouting mouth… _right_ … _there_ against the scar.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time the Widow gets jealous after finding out that Tilda and Odessa shared a kiss was a dark time for her. 

She doesn’t begrudge Tilda the attention from Odessa.  The Widow has needs as well, but the strength of her jealousy is definitely something new.

It simmers and burns under her skin until one evening she can no longer take the way it makes her feel.  Being jealous of one of her Butterflies makes the Widow feel weak and helpless and that simply cannot stand.  The fact that it’s Tilda makes the feeling worse and after coming across Odessa and Tilda in the garden earlier that day, the Widow finds herself taking out her frustrations on any Cog willing to take her on in combat training.  When her training partners started to meet her eyes with fear instead of good-hearted challenge, she made herself walk away, thanking them for indulging her.

The Widow feels like she finally burned the dark energy that was simmering all day out of her system and she finds herself taking her first easy breath as she heads up the stairs in the Conservatory.  She senses Tilda before she sees her and suddenly, none of the Widow’s coping mechanisms mean anything.  The way Tilda’s eyes glance over the Widow’s body, just once, before she meets her eyes snaps at the restraint inside the Widow.

She feels herself moving before she even thinks and all she can think about is that she has to do something, feel something other than this festering jealousy.  Feel something other than this love and lust that lives inside her body where thoughts of Tilda always linger.

Never looking away from Tilda’s eyes, the Widow closes the distance between them and backs Tilda against the wall by the staircase.  She keeps some space between them, hesitating for just a moment to give Tilda time to pull away.  To say something.  To stop what’s going to happen next before it changes everything between them.  But then the Widow feels Tilda’s hands come up and slide across her waist, Tilda’s chin lifting as her mouth parts slightly.

The Widow shifts closer and Tilda moans.  Just that small sound and all hesitation is gone as she takes Tilda’s mouth in a rough kiss, desperate to wipe every trace of Odessa from Tilda’s body.  Her hands come up to press hard against Tilda’s shoulders and when she feels an answering action as Tilda’s hands pull her closer, the Widow redoubles her efforts.  One hand coming up to grip Tilda’s chin, the Widow’s thumb pressing down and opening Tilda’s mouth wider.  Their tongues slide together in a way that has the Widow rocking against Tilda’s body, Tilda’s teeth trapping the Widow’s bottom lip as she sucks hard.  Tilda’s hands shift restlessly over the curve of the Widow’s ass and the Widow deepens the kiss, every part of her aching to get closer.  The sound of Tilda moaning deeply finally pulls the Widow out of her lust-filled haze and she ends the kiss, the wet sound of their lips sliding apart almost enticing the Widow to keep going. 

She takes a small step back, well aware that neither of them have let go of the other one, and the Widow just listens to their heavy breathing for a long moment.  Giving in just one more time, she presses the softest kiss against Tilda’s bottom lip before stepping back from her completely.  Guilt and shame come pouring across her thoughts like cold water and force the Widow to keep her gaze riveted to the space just over Tilda’s shoulder, unable to meet her gaze.

Releasing Tilda from her grasp, the Widow’s voice is low as she turns her head and dismisses Tilda, not trusting herself to not let go and just take Tilda right there by the staircase.

“Go.”

“Mother, I…”

“ _Now_.”  Meeting her eyes for one loaded second, the Widow lets her eyes soften and hopes that Tilda understands that whatever just happened between them can’t continue right there in the open.  “Tilda, _please_.”

Tilda hesitates and the Widow looks down, groaning slightly at the tremble in Tilda’s legs.  Scrubbing a hand over her face, the Widow takes one more step back to allow Tilda to push away from the wall.  She keeps her gaze down and her chest constricts as Tilda lets her fingers brush against the Widow’s hand as she heads down the stairs.  With her lips tingling, the Widow can’t help but turn at the last moment and catch Tilda’s hand, pressing her lips to the knuckles there as they finally look at each other.

So much passes between them in that look and the smile Tilda gives her.  It has the Widow smiling in return before finally releasing Tilda’s hand.  There are a hundred things she wants to say but she gives them this moment to just be, to have the kiss between them, and save the talk she knows they need to have for another time.

With a small nod, Tilda continues down the stairs and leaves the room.  Pressing her fingers to her lips, the Widow turns and rests her back against the wall, the first genuine smile in days stretching across her fingertips.  There’s so much to still think about but for tonight, she’s going to enjoy the joy filling her heart where jealousy used to be.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I tagged this as incest/implied incest because while the Widow and Tilda's mother/daughter relationship is not a blood one, they do consider each other mother and daughter. It is also how they are officially defined on the show.


End file.
